


Last Life

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ableism, Gen, Reincarnation, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 11:32:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13433844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: Bifur remembers his past life after getting an axe embedded in his head. Unfortunately, it's hard to convince anyone that you're Durin reborn when you can only speak ancient Khuzdul.





	Last Life

 

At the gates of Khazad-dum, Bifur remembers.

The goblins have pushed them back from the gates, spilling out from the darkness of Moria likes hordes of ants. The bedraggled dwarves of Durin's folk, already tired and half-starving after their long wandering, are cut down like felled trees. Bifur stares around at the corpses on either side of him. Raises a hand. When he touches his head, his fingers comes away red with blood, and his skull feels three times as heavy as he stumbles to his feet.

As it turns out, there's a reason for this.

An unfamiliar dwarrow starts cursing when Bifur makes his slow, halting way from the battlefield and stumbles into the retreating ranks of the warband. Hands grab his sides as dwarves rush over. “Get a healer,” someone calls, and another voice says: “Just put him down, leave him be - the bastard is already dead.”

As someone fetches a healer Bifur understands that their attempt to reclaim Khazad-dum – to reclaim a home for Durin's people – has failed. But that doesn't make sense.

Because Bifur _remembers_ the high walls of the mountain, the sweeping pillars ten times the height of Man – tall and wide enough, Bifur had thought, for all the Vala to make attendance and play guests in the greatest city of dwarves.

He remembers, too, a lake.

Bifur ignores the hands pushing him down and walks away. The healer has arrived, but doesn't try to stop him. “Look at him,” that dwarf says, gruff but not unkind; “If he wishes to die on his feet, so be it. I can do nothing for that axe. Pulling it out will kill him.”

And so Bifur walks unhindered. He does not see his cousins among the blood-splattered ranks of soldiers. Perhaps they are dead, or injured. The thought seems oddly distant.

Bifur keeps walking. As he moves away dwarrows become scarce, and soon he is alone, stumbling through overgrown grass and squeezing his eyes to press back the pain in his head.

Finally he sees it.

The small lake by the Eastern Gate stands dark and still, as he remembers. The sides are smooth and curved, giving the lake an unnatural, unbroken shore. Bifur limps haltingly toward the lake until the pain in his head proves too great. Then he falls, and he continues the last few steps on his knees.

Bifur looks down into the dark waters and sees his own face staring back. Were any other man, elf, or dwarf to gaze into this pool they would only find a smooth black glass reflecting back at them. But Bifur reaches down, and his image ripples. Above his dark eyes shines a crown of seven stars.

And finally Bifur sees the axe stuck in the back of his head, embedded so deep that half the blade is caught in his skull. His knees start to shake, and he collapses into the pools of Kheled-zaram without a sound.

* * *

 

“Great Mahal,” a voice says, and louder: “He's awake!”

Bifur opens his eyes to find Bofur kneeling at his side, shaking his arm with bone-jarring enthusiasm. Bifur is laid out on a crumpled sheet, surrounded by rows of other wounded or resting soldiers. “I knew you wouldn't die!” Bofur claims.

“Don't get your hopes up,” a voice mutters. A healer in grimy, red-soaked robes appears on Bifur's other side. “Though it _is_ a miracle you're alive at all,” he tells Bifur, more loudly. “Perhaps there is yet hope.”

“But can you...?” Bofur makes an odd gesture toward his own head.

“No,” says the healer briskly. “The axe stays. We might be able to cut off the handle, and make it more manageable; but I can't imagine he would survive if it moves.”

Bofur seems to wilt, and after inspecting the bandages around Bifur's head the healer hurries away. “Well,” says Bofur, “I suppose it does not matter; you are alive! But let me tell you what has happened. I do not know if you recall the end of the battle, but this has been an unhappy day.”

He tells Bifur of the hordes of goblins, the cave-trolls led with steel collars, and the death of Thrain to a pale orc. Thorin, young Thorin who is not even seventy, is now the grieving king of Durin's folk.

“A fell day indeed!” Bofur finishes. “But at least you did not die, cousin, so I can still have some happiness.”

…

….

But Bifur _did_ die.

He remembers goblins, yes; but more he remembers shadow, and fire, and orange eyes burning over a moving mountain of lava. He remembers a whip of flame curling around his throat, the smell of his singed beard, the cries of his people as the mountain crumbled about him.

He remembers that his name is not Bifur.

He struggles to prop himself up on his elbows, ignoring Bofur's sudden fussing, and draws a breath.

“Thorin will not be king,” he says firmly. “Cousin, you will like this not; but I am Durin VII, Durin reborn, and I will see my people to safety.”

Or, that is what he tried to say.

The words come forth, but not in any language his cousin can understand. Bofur crinkles his brows in confusion. “Eh?” he asks. “Why are you talking like that? You said something about Durin?”

“I am Durin!” he says. But again the words are strange.

“Why are you talking in ancient Khuzdul? I can barely understand you,” Bofur scolds.

Bifur falls back against the damp ground as his cousin calls for a healer.

“I am Durin,” he repeats, but no one is listening.

* * *

 

Thorin is a grim king, but it is hard to fault him for this. The wandering people of Durin's folk have only known unhappiness since the fall of Erebor, wandering from one mountain to another and pleading for aid before they are politely but firmly shut out. Diamond-workers and lords work side by side with tin-miners and bartenders as they all try to eke out every copper penny they can get, anything that will purchase one more meal or scrap of clothing for their roving kingdom.

The months trudge on into years, and Bofur and Bombur continue to fuss over Bifur, worried by his long silences and indecipherable speech. He can communicate with them a little in Iglishmek, but that speech is suited to mines and practical work, and he has no language for the things he wants to say.

Bofur turns himself to learning ancient Khuzdul, but Bombur has no head for words and can follow almost nothing of his speech.

And, still, Bifur wonders what he might tell his cousin should they ever communicate successfully. There is a dragon awake in Arda, and that is the sort of thing which would prompt Mahal to recall the last Durin. Yet ever his folk wander away from the Lonely Mountain, and Bifur son of Budwin is no dragon-slayer.

Bifur is a warrior, but the axe in his head makes people uneasy; he would fall in an instant if hit over the head. He turns to whittling, instead, with restless hands; and soon enough he starts making toys for the camp's little children, who alone are unbothered by his injury. But Bifur's hands are tired, these days, and shake and tremble at the slightest hint of fatigue. He is a dwarf who can barely craft, and his cousins say it doesn't matter, but it does. It does.

Three years after the Battle of Azanulbizar Bifur wakes with dreams of different stones dancing through his mind. Six brothers, and a starless ceiling, and Mahal bending low to say, _Welcome._

He dreams of Gundabad, and in the morning he asks Bofur why they don't make a home in those mountains.

“Gundabad festers with orcs,” his cousin scoffs. “It is a pit of flies and lava; we would die all the quicker there.”

This is not what Bifur remembers of the mountains. But hazy memories come – reports to Durin IV of orcs and winged monsters, legends of forges in the ground that were used to birth Morgoth'a abominations.

Two homes ruined, then.

Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur are not descendants of Durin VI – or Durin V, Durin IV, or Durin III. The records are very hazy behind that, and Bifur supposes it's not impossible – or even improbable – that he's related to _one_ of the previous Durins. But for five lives he has been born again as his own direct-descendant, a king by right and blood both.

Bifur is a toy-maker. A _bad_ toy-maker. And Durin's folk, his kin, live on the fringes of society following an angry king who has not turned seventy.

* * *

 

In the years that pass the dwarrows of their lost-kingdom dwindle apart. Some move to the Blue Mountains, or even head far east, where Haradrim tribes menace the rocky mountains past the desert and silent dwarves keep themselves aloof. Every day Bifur rises and looks at his cousins and kinsmen; every day he thinks, _I must help._ But for once, he doesn't know how.

Instead Bifur cannot help but think of himself as a burden, though Bofur would cuff him soundly if he managed to convey this idea. His hands have grown too twisty and fatigued for metal-work, and he is reduced to a dependent, barely able to help his cousins survive. Adding to his shame, Bofur hovers protectively whenever they enter towns of Men. It is a queer feeling; Bifur is not used to being protected, and it goes against lifetimes of experience to let his cousin speak for him.

Bofur is also prickly toward other dwarves when they're together. Most of Durin's folk ignore or overlook Bifur, and are polite about his difficulties communicating; but they also talk about him as though the axe had cleaved off his ears instead of scrambling his tongue. “What a pity,” they say to one another, right in front of him. “What a good soldier that one was, and now he's a simpleton.”

(Bofur continues to teach himself ancient Khuzdul, but his efforts are uncertain, and the resources do not exist to teach him perfect fluency. There is a wealth of things Bifur cannot say. Will not say.)

In the ten years that have now passed since the battle of Azanulbizar. Bifur has become accustomed to sitting and watching would-be warriors learning under Mr. Dwalin whenever he has the time. He cannot help much with the teaching, but he is still a soldier, first and foremost, and Dwalin often asks him to spar or help with a demonstration.

Bifur likes Dwalin, and it's good to feel useful.

Today the lesson takes place atop a high hill half a mile from the dwarrow's latest camp. Dozens of young dwarrowlings groan when the sky opens into rain, but they do not leave; true soldiers fight in far worse conditions.

Still, no one likes to be miserable. Most of the group are going through the latest move Dwalin taught them; but a few more are resting, waiting for a chance to display their techniques for the old veteran, and these lucky dwarves fling themselves under the cover of a nearby stand of trees. Within minutes a small glow of fire gleams through the deluge.

And Bifur remembers.

There was steam, first. Perhaps sensing the water, and its potential weakness against it, the Balrog had come up through the huge underground pool that provided water for most of Khazad-dum. Durin VI had rushed down at the head of an alarmed flock of dwarves. When he arrived at the pool he choked through the burning clouds of steam, groping blindly toward the water's edge. He reached it just as the Balrog rose up, glaring at him with burning eyes of fire. Living shadows snaked against Durin's neck, and his soldiers yelled when the creature brought up a sharp, burning whip -

“Bifur? You alright?”

Bifur flinches away. The trainee soldiers are gone, and the rain is now a slow drizzle; on the other side of the hill the fire has been reduced to smoldering embers.

Dwalin stands in front of him, alone, wearing a faint frown. Bifur feels cold. How long has he sat in the rain?

As the silence stretches Dwalin declares, “I'm getting your cousin.” Bifur couldn't find the words to protest even if he wanted to.

It seems that Bofur materializes by his side only seconds later, which is... probably a bad sign. The older dwarf is extraordinarily gentle, speaking quietly and tugging him back home like Bifur is a traumatized child, rather than a warrior and his elder both. Bifur can't wrap his tongue around any words, even in the ancient language, and so he just lowers his head when Bofur tries to question him.

Bofur always defends him from those that doubt his mind, but sometimes Bifur is sure that his cousin secretly thinks him mad.

What Bifur _fears_ is that Bofur might not be wrong.

* * *

 

Bifur speaks less with his boisterous cousin Bombur, mainly because the fat dwarf can't understand him to the same extent as Bofur. But Bombur frets far less, and his easy acceptance can be relaxing. Bifur likes to sit by the fire with Bombur while the baker cooks for the camp.

Sometimes Bombur chats idly as he moves around the fire, though Bifur cannot answer except with vague Iglishmek.

“Just last week we had another mad dwarf claim he's Durin the Deathless,” Bombur clicks his tongue. “Ha! Durin himself! We could use him, no mistake, but I daresay we'd know if _he_ were alive.”

Bifur says nothing.

“Course, if Durin _were_ to show himself, now would be the time. Did you hear, King Thorin is planning on going back to Erebor? Aye, and bringing his heirs with him!”

Bombur catches his curious glance. “Aye, isn't that something?” he asks conversationally. The cook peers at his pan over the fire, scowling at whatever he finds. “ _And_ he's asking for volunteers! We need a home, that's certain; but he has less than a dozen dwarves willing to go with him. Of course everyone hopes Smaug is dead by now, but what if he's not? You can't kill a dragon with less than an army – and maybe not even then.” Bombur shakes his head. “I fear we might never see Thorin or his nephews again.”

But Bifur is already rising to his feet. He gestures so fast that Bombur squints. “...What? Let me see that again,” his cousin says, but Bifur is already moving.

He needs to find a dragon. There must be a _reason_ Bifur is alive right now.

He will help slay Smaug the Terrible or he will die trying.

* * *

 

Bofur is horrified when he learns that Bifur has signed up for the king's suicidal quest. He immediately volunteers too, and Bombur grudgingly follows suit.

Bifur tries to explain that they don't need to come – this is _his_ task – but Bofur just gives him a flat look. “I'm not letting you hare off to some mountain alone,” he says, and Bifur knows he will not budge.

The preparations for their journey take some time; Thorin has hope, still, that the other dwarven-kingdoms will lend them some aid. But Oin, one of the oldest healers in the camp, eventually claims that the portents are good and they need to act immediately. So the company sets out to meet their last member – a hobbit of the Shire named Bilbo Baggins.

Bifur remembers hobbits. Or he thinks he does, anyway.

Durin III once learned how to speak the secret, tittering language of hobbits, though he liked it not; it made his gruff voice seem oddly squeaky. But back then hobbits were a gentle, easily-frightened race. They would known for their kindness and generosity, certainly, but there was not a warrior among them. Bifur cannot imagine that has changed, and his first impression of the Shire – and of the small Bilbo Baggins – seems to confirm this.

But Bilbo agrees to become their burglar nevertheless. And Bifur also meets the last of their party; a wizard, named Gandalf, who Durin I once knew as Olorin.

As the others chatter late into the night, Olorin sits back with his pipe and watches Bifur through unblinking eyes. But he says nothing, and so Bifur doesn't, either.

* * *

  
The journey to Erebor is long and hard. Bifur knows Thorin can be a good king, but he is also prone to long moments of brooding, and temper, and the stress of the quest has put a permanent edge of grimness to his character. He is especially harsh with the poor hobbit, who Bofur and Bombur well-like.

More than once Bifur wants to cry, “Lead your people, grandson!” He wants to tell Thorin to step aside, so he can become again the ruler that six lifetimes say he _must_ become. But he is just Bifur, here. Bofur and Bombur whisper to him as they walk, and the hobbit smiles politely and shares his pipe-weed, and Kili asks him for help fletching arrows. But he is largely ignored. Bifur is a toymaker, and cannot speak, and he is no king.

Olorin watches Bifur one day, and on the next ignores him utterly, wandering away to brood under trees or mutter about the foolishness of dwarves. _Do you know me,_ Bifur wants to ask. _Help me, tell them who I am, tell me what Mahal would have me do._ But he says nothing, and ere they reach Mirkwood the wizard leaves and does not return.

When they reach Erebor the dragon is released, and it burns Dale. The dragon is killed by a Man. Thorin is hit with gold-sickness and goes mad.

There is a battle worse than Azanulbizar. Thorin dies. Fili and Kili die.

The elder line of Durin ends.

* * *

 

Bifur stands silently by the gates of Erebor as Dain's folk stream past. An unending line of dwarves, soft and delighted, they act as though they have more right to the Lonely Mountain than the subdued remnants of Thorin's kingdom.

His kingdom.

After awhile Olorin appears from the crowd, his tall gauntness easily pushing a path through the chaos of dwarrows. He comes to stand beside Bifur and pulls out a pipe.

Their little corner starts to smell of a particularly rank weed and everyone gives the pair a wide berth. After a few minutes Olorin speaks:

“ - Dain will be a good king.”

Bifur just glares.

“Perhaps better than Thorin,” Olorin continues. “ - Or, perhaps not. But your thoughts need not be so grim. Your time has past, son of Aule! Why is your face so dark?”

Bifur gestures silently to the black canvas thrown over the gates.

The wizard's old face softens. “You have descendants still,” says Olorin, though his voice is kinder now. “Dain is also cousin to your line.”

Does Olorin mean this as a comfort?

Bifur swallows past the nausea in his throat. The dizzying relief that comes from Olorin's final _acknowledgment_ of his identity wars with darker feelings. Would Thorin and Fili and Kili have died if Durin the Deathless had led the march to Erebor? Would the dwarrows have risen up and stormed the mountain en masse? Would they have thrived?

Is the death of the kings a sign that his people will fail?

Bifur cannot ask any of this. Iglishmek fails him; his hands are shaking too hard, and he clenches a fist against his leg.

“You can be a toy-maker for all your days,” Olorin says, “Or join your siblings in their crafts, or continue in war; but you are not a king. You will never be a king again. You should see it as a gift, old friend. Your final rest.”

 _That was not your decision to make,_ Bifur wants to scream.

But he does not. They stand there together as the march of the dwarrows continues and the evening deepens into dusk. The final dwarves vanish inside Erebor, swallowed by its darkness.

And, alone, Bifur wonders if his kin march toward their deaths.

.

..

...

….

…..

…...

…....

* * *

 

 _(((And it is said_ still _among the dwarves of the mountains that Durin the Deathless will waken one final time, and they will prosper again as they did when the earth was young and kind...)))_

 


End file.
